


Only Going Over Home

by eccentric_artist_221b



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Titanic (1997)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adoption, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, Asthmatic Peter Parker, Baking, Coming of Age, Edwardian Period, Emotional, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Parent Tony Stark, Platonic Relationships, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, RMS Titanic, Separation Anxiety, Sequel, Suspense, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, World War I, hints of spideychelle, irondad feels from here on out kids, our baby is growing up, persevering in the face of adversity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25760743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eccentric_artist_221b/pseuds/eccentric_artist_221b
Summary: A Sequel to 'Only for a Little While' - Two years after the Titanic disaster, World War 1 hits Tony and Peter too close to home. With Peter's lungs still weak from the night of the sinking, there is little he can do to aid in the fight against tyranny...that is, until a letter arrives, calling for any and all assistance in keeping an entire nation from starving to death. "Baking can't save the world, dad!" Peter says....until it does.
Relationships: Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 117
Kudos: 87





	1. Joining the Cause

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how to begin this note to you all. Part of me wants to spend it apologizing for just how long this sequel has taken to start up again. Another part of me wants to sob and express just how thankful I am for the amount of love Only for a Little While has received and continues to receive…but most of me wants to say thank you for waiting for me…that is, if anybody IS still waiting for me. Lol It has been well over a year since the last chapter of my Titanic fic…since I tempted you all with a sequel. (How very, very cruel I was.)  
> In short though, this year has sucked for most of us in more ways than one. I had been pretty ill while writing Only for a Little While and continued to spiral further in to hospital visits and two months of bed rest at the start of 2020. I can only thank God with all my heart that I was able to climb out of death’s door and enter back in to, what I now consider, the healthiest I’ve felt in my entire life. (I have so many people to thank for that, but I won’t do that here.)  
> Bottom line: I’m just so grateful. I could not have started this new adventure without all the encouragement I’ve been given. It took me an entire year to feel comfortable enough to write a WW1 fic (what was I thinking!?) and I am still so scared that this isn’t enough. I hope, at the very least, you will feel my dedication to you all, my faithful readers. Please forgive me if this story hits and misses on historical accuracy.  
> Believe me when I say I have tried my very best with what I’ve been given, and with what little self-education I’ve gone through using books, websites, museums and more.  
> Also, I have rewritten this plot at least a dozen times…deleted scene after scene that was dear to my heart when it wouldn’t work for the story. I do believe I now have enough substance and direction for this thing to move forward. Please be patient with me, lovelies. You all are amazing and I love you!

_November 30th, 1914_

_Brussels, Belgium_

“There! Just through that patch of trees.”

Peter takes a few gulps of air, pulling Tony’s limp form up and on to his back with great effort, close to losing his footing a couple times as he carries the man through the tall grass swishing around his calves.

The morning thunder rolls in the distance, black clouds moving towards their small frames like an angry beast with a mind of its own.

A coughing fit erupts from Tony’s chest as he struggles to catch his next few breaths, “…’s too late.”

“No!” Peter shouts, “You promised!”

The teen falls hard to his knees as the words leave his lips, feeling Tony’s body roll to the ground before he can right himself. Whirling around, he turns the other man over, grabbing his face in anguish.

“No-no-no, please! Please! Wake up! Please…please!”

“Mr. Stark’s not really dead!” a child’s voice rings above Peter’s loud sobs, “Right?”

A loud chorus of protests follow. “Timmy!” other young voices cry out in unison.

Peter’s crying stops at once, laughter bursting from his lips, as he falls back and disappears in the grass.

Tony sits up with a groan, propping himself up with his arms and waving a pesky weed away when it tickles his nose, “Timmy, we’ve been over this, bud. Remember? Mr. Stark’s only pretending when we’re forced to act out these horribly written plays for you boys.”

Peter reappears like a jack-in-the-box, clutching his sides and shaking his head as he tries to form words, the silent laughter continuing to steal them away, “You liar!” he finally makes out, “You told me they were good quality! I worked for hours on those blasted things!”

“Which is why I felt compelled to give you only the highest of praise-” Now it’s Tony’s turn to break out in giggles as his son charges at him, pushing him down in the grass and pinning him there as he beckons the group of boys over.

“Get him!” they all cry, circling him like a pack of hungry wolf cubs going in for their first kill. Tony can smell the biscuit flour and the smoke from the nearby fire pit on their thick, tattered coats as they pile on top of him.

“Tickle him!”

“Get his legs!”

The millionaire’s shrieks echo across the wide-open field as he makes attempts at wiggling his way out of the ambush, but the oldest of the cubs ensures no escape. His only saving grace is the long-suffering valet appearing just over the hill, a couple yards away, carrying a picnic basket as if it were the crown jewels of England.

“Jarvis!!” Tony cries over the giggles, “Save me!”

….

_War._

_It had come for them overnight._

_Much like the Titanic they were on nearly three years ago, disaster arrived after warnings, peace talks, and obstinate pride from every angle._

_It hadn’t yet touched them physically…hadn’t assaulted and pillaged England like it had in Belgium and France._

_Even so, Tony’s regretted leaving New York for their manor in Southampton ever since getting word of the German onslaught._

_Today marks a year since he and Peter had left the cramped city with Jarvis, Mrs. Whitmore and Aunt May in tow, braving the sea once more to reach, what had originally been, their first home together with its acres of open field, stable full of horses, and forest of fir trees in the backyard._

_They had settled in as if they’d never left and Tony was finally able to make good on his pledge._

_Stark’s Family Bakery opened its doors on the docks of Southampton, just a couple miles from the manor. The little building shared space with some of the largest luxury vessels in the world, a daily reminder of what they had endured together._

_Peter was a natural at his work, able to reach his full potential with his new father’s helping hand. Five days a week, the windows were full of sponge cakes, Chelsea buns, Toffee Pudding, Bakewell Tarts, and of course, the heavenly blueberry scones that had started it all._

_The teen’s talents would’ve certainly reached world-wide fame had destiny not intervened for a second time._

_Tony still remembers the day Peter came home from the bakery, twirling a long, white feather in his hand a few weeks into the war. “Where did you get that?” he asked as he plucked the feather from his son’s grasp, “Who gave this to you?”_

_“A couple of ladies outside the shop,” Peter replied with eyebrows hiking upwards, “They were passing them out to all the men at the docks.”_

_“And do these Wisenheimers have nothing better to do with their time? You’re not even a British citizen!”_

_Of course, Peter had continued staring back at his father with, entirely, no understanding of the insult he’d just received._

_With the war effort and the recruitment in full swing, there were those of the White Feather Campaign who would present any able-bodied young man in civilian dress with this token, symbolizing their scorn for him and his failure to be a man. It was yet another strategy to encourage enlistment._

_The entire movement was despicable. Never mind the fact that Peter was American and still dealt with residual lung problems from his prolonged exposure to the frigid waters of the Atlantic._

_Try as he might, Tony couldn’t protect the boy for long._

_When your kid had the wonderful curse of showing brilliant, brave and honest traits, no parent stood a chance against the British Army and its promise of victory against tyranny._

_“I can’t just sit here and do nothing! At least you and Uncle Steve have your little world peace meetings or whatever it is that you do when you’re gone all the time!”_

_“Pete-“_

_“Baking can’t save the world, dad!”_

_“Who says?” Tony shot back, “And why is this suddenly all on you, huh?”_

_“Because it’s the right thing to do.”_

_“Sure, nothing at all to do with the constant peer pressure…or how ‘bout the huge propaganda posters around every corner-”_

_“Dad, just st-stop!” Peter interjected, throwing his hands up and pressing his palms to his temples, “Look, this might not be our country, but we still live in it and I am not gonna just stand by and watch it burn!”_

_Peter had stormed off despite Tony’s protests, only to return that night with a stamped form of rejection; the bright red symbol in the center of the paper had been a glaring reminder of his body’s weakness._

_“You can stop pretending you aren’t thrilled to see I didn’t make it,” said the teen, later on, against his folded knees, watery eyes staring into the flames of the hearth as Tony squeezed the back of his neck._

_“Thank God,” Tony gasped, “Honestly, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep it up.”_

_“Bugger off,” Peter replied, cracking a smile and giving Tony a hard shove._

_“Oooh, Bugger off, huh? We’re picking up on some of the local boy’s slang now?”_

_“Well, I have to keep up with you somehow.”_

_For Tony, it was a touch of blissful limbo, a pause to remind his adopted son that he was still so proud of him, a fleeting bit of time to relish in Peter’s safety with no idea of what could possibly come around the pike._

_He didn’t have to wait long for fate to stir the pot again._

_A month later, in September, he had received a letter from a Mr. Herbert Hoover, a fellow genius, philanthropist begging for his aid. It was a call to action…a plea for money, volunteers and, of all things, bakers._

_“Ready to join the cause?” Tony had asked Peter out in the barn that evening, tossing the envelope down onto a hay bail._

_The frogs and crickets had been especially vocal, down at the pond, that night, summer’s grand finale before autumn could steal the show._

_Peter gives the horse he’d been caring for a final pat before shutting the stall behind him, coughing a few times and slumping on to an overturned barrel to catch his breath. “What is it?” he asked, reaching for the letter and unfolding its contents._

_“Turns out,” Tony began, folding his arms and propping a wingtip shoe up against the wall behind him, “Baking actually can save the world.”_

_He lets Peter read all the information himself, waits for the realization to pass over the boy’s features before he shows his own feelings on the matter._

_“The…Commission for Relief in Belgium?” Peter murmurs, scanning the yellow tinted paper with ever widening eyes._

_“I prefer CRB. Less of a mouth full,” Tony adds, moving over to place his hands on his son’s shoulders. “Listen, we might not be able to fight the bad guys head on, but, maybe, just maybe, this’ll give you another chance to ‘do the right thing’.”_

_The CRB organization had sprung up out of nowhere, formed by a group of tenacious millionaires seeking to rescue an entire nation from starvation. In short, it arranged for the supply of food to what was now German-occupied Belgium and northern France._

_Within a few months, Hoover and a team of mostly American volunteers, including a few undercover agents, whom Tony trusted with his life, would build up, what one British government official called, "a piratical state organized for benevolence."_

_The plan would have them traveling freely through enemy lines, remaining a neutral party in order to feed those who could not feed themselves._

_Tony had been more than a little wary about the fact that Germany allowed it to happen in the first place. “This is a hundred percent conditional though,” he said after seeing Peter had read through it all._

_“On what?”_

_“We do our part, helping the little guy. You promise to stick with me at all times…and go home when I say it’s time. Do I make myself perfectly clear, boyo?”_

_Peter’s lips part, looking back and forth between Tony and the paper, “We’re really doing this?”_

_“Yeah, that’s what we were just talking about…promise first.”_

_“You’re actually letting me go into occupied Belgium?”_

_“WE are going to occupied Belgium…and don’t say it like that or I might change my mind. Now, promise!”_

_Peter springs up from the barrel, “I promise!”_

_“I really should get it in writing…” Tony sighed, hoping he won’t regret this later on._

_“This is awesome,” Peter says, chest looking as if it’s ready to burst, “Thank you, sir! Thank you!”_

_Tony laughs when the boy throws his arms around him, returning the hug and pulling back, just enough, to look down at Peter’s face. “Yeah, we’ll see if you’re still thanking me after this project takes off,” he replies, squishing the boy’s cheeks. “Come on. We’ve got a lot of work to do. I can’t trust Hoover with all the fun. That guy’s nuttier than a Christmas fruitcake.”_

He hadn’t told Peter about the more dangerous part he’d be playing in this war, that he would never have brought Peter into enemy territory if he thought there was any other choice. He had left every other bit of information out, for his own sanity. Perhaps the boy would never have to know about the Avengers Resistance and their interwoven plans against the evils of this world.

_Perhaps._

And now, here they are, in Brussels, Belgium, knee deep in a side project that they hadn’t asked for but, openly, embraced.

They were, now, the legal guardians of thirty-five war orphans and counting, boys of all shapes, sizes, nationalities and walks of life, gathered together in a newly abandoned five story mansion in the woods. They had even opened a home for girls in Ostend, on the coast, currently being managed by a few American women who had answered the call.

Tony had bought the buildings off of the Germans before they were raided, using his wit and wallet to keep the Kaiser at a distance, though he could do nothing about the random, unannounced inspections.

In the first few weeks, it had been only one or two little ones lying on the streets without their parents…an easy enough fix to send them to local British-run hospitals near the front where they could delegate care and new guardianship, but with each passing day, neither Tony or Peter could deny the need for further involvement.

And for Tony, every dirt-stained, starving little waif was a Peter Parker living alone on the streets. Giving them somewhere to eat, sleep and bathe gave him the ability to sleep at night…never mind that many of those nights were spent sneaking off to other side missions that had nothing to do with the CRB.

….

Peter brings a halt to the children’s attack when he catches Jarvis’ expression, rising to his feet and pulling Tony up as well when he senses something’s amiss.

They meet the butler halfway, staring down at the basket as Tony raises an eyebrow, “I guess a little picnic wouldn’t hurt the theatrics, but I’m quitting at the suggestion of tea and dress-up.”

Jarvis stares down at the object in his hands, pausing before lifting the lid, “Not a picnic, sir. It appears to be the newest member of our household.

Neither Tony or Peter are prepared to see a newborn infant, fast asleep, inside the wicker apparatus, its tiny, pink body still covered in the sticky substance from its birth.

The millionaire falters back, quick to right himself before Peter can see it’s shaken him up a bit, how it’s taken him back to a time he’s almost managed to forget all together.

At least this newborn is very much alive, granted, its little ribs are more visible than they should be.

“Did they leave a note? Anything?” Tony asks, bending down to pull the infant out of the basket, “Poor little thing, you’ve got to be freezing in this fall weather.”

Peter takes off his top coat, handing it to his father as he swaddles the baby up with it.

“Just this,” Jarvis replies, handing him a strip of cloth.

Tony reads the smudged message aloud, “No food. Please help.” He tosses the note on the ground with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

And doesn’t that just sum up the country’s entire predicament. Would it soon be the world’s as well?

“Hey! Does this look like a nursery to you?!” Tony shouts across the yard, hoping the well-meaning deliverer might still be within earshot. The baby stirs at the noise and the millionaire cradles the fragile being closer to his chest, bobbing it back and forth in a soothing rhythmic fashion, “Couldn’t have gone down a few more houses,” he murmurs down at the creature, “Nope. The home run by three clueless bachelors seemed pretty sound, huh?”

Tony’s eyes turn up to Peter’s, face burning red when he sees the softness in his son’s expression. “Don’t be jealous.”

Peter snorts and crosses his arms, “I’m not.”

Tony smirks and bends down to show the other orphans the new baby, “Uh-huh. Then what’s with the doe eyes? You only give that look when your heart’s about to burst.” One of the younger boys pokes the infant’s cheek and Tony opens their palm, “Gentle. Like this.”

Peter stuffs his hands in his pockets, taking in all the children surrounding the man who’s rescued them…who’s rescued him almost three years ago. The smile widens on his lips, “You were born for this, Mr. Stark.”

Tony turns his attention back to Peter upon hearing him use the formal name, catching the teenager’s meaning and shrugging it off with a sniff and an eye roll.

The remaining children of the house come closer, crowding their guardians to see what all the commotion is about as another clap of thunder rolls on, further away.

Tony weighs his options, of which, there aren’t many. All the orphanages in Brussels are already full to the brim with children, many of the buildings unfit for prisoners, let alone Belgium’s most vulnerable citizens. It was why he hadn’t been able to turn any of his foundlings away.

A baby was an entirely different matter. They required round the clock care…a mother… _milk._

“Well, it looks like we’ll be taking a trip to Ostend.”

Peter raises a brow, “That’s…hours away on horseback. Shouldn’t we ask the usual local spots for some of that new powdered formula? I remember seeing it with the rest of the cargo.”

Tony stands to his feet again, handing the baby back to Jarvis, dusting stray bits of grass off of his satin waistcoat, “Yeah, that’s a waste of time, considering the next shipment we’re getting here won’t be for another week or so. Everybody’s bound to be running low on everything here…not to mention, new mothers.”

Peter clicks his tongue and nods, picking up one of the youngsters when they reach their tiny hands up to him. “Right. Very well, Mr. Holmes,” he says in his best British accent, “I shall ready the horses.”

Tony smirks and raises his chin, “Ever you are my faithful companion, Watson. Do make haste, old chap.”

Jarvis turns away to hide a smile, shaking his head at the pair he had vowed to devote himself to, “And I shall just be in the washroom, tending to our new guest, should the detective or the doctor find they still need my assistance,” he says with hidden notes of mirth before trekking back to the mansion.

“Cheerio!” Tony and Peter call in unison, amused when the children try to copy them.

Peter adjusts the boy he carries to sit up on his shoulders, keeping a firm grip on the tot’s chubby hands, “Let’s go see the ponies,” he says as he heads for the barn at the bottom of the grassy hill. 

Tony doesn’t miss the fatigue in his son’s voice, “Pete, you take rests if you need, I’ll meet you there in a bit-“

“Yeah, I know,” Peter calls back, taking off in a light trot in defiance to his limitations, much to his rider’s delight.

Tony waves a hand of dismissal as the laughter fades in the distance. There was only so much he could do to chorale that kid.

To make matters worse, the Oldsmobile, loaned to them, had just broken down. The millionaire’s still waiting for the delegates to bring him the expensive part he needs to fix it. Thankfully, he’d had two of his best horses shipped to Belgium with very little hassle: Happy, his oldest and dearest thoroughbred and a sturdy, dark bay named Karen, who had claimed Peter as her favorite from the first day they’d returned to Southampton.

When the horses are saddled and ready, they ensure the children are all accounted for and taken care of before riding off towards the coast. If they were fortunate enough to not be hindered by a random search, they’d reach the shipping port in under four hours.

………….

_Ostend, Belgium_

Ostend’s hotels and boardwalks are somewhat intact when they arrive at the coastal town. Though it's war torn like the rest of Belgium, it looks a treat compared to Brussels.

Billowing steam clouds swirl together from the smokestacks atop the many boats and ships still waiting to dock, while tired, mud-covered horses pull wagons in all directions, guided by soldiers and civilians.

Despite the usual backdrop of a dismal war, Peter is relieved to find it’s a hair warmer than their makeshift spot, further inland. The salty wind carries notes of sulfur and seaweed and it gives him a pang of longing for home. At least the inspections are relatively painless, much of it due to Tony’s reputation and his ability to speak fluent German.

Seagulls gather in impressive numbers all along the rows of piling posts, waiting for the scraps from the fishing nets or a box to be overturned. A large group of Belgian women and children wait patiently for their next meal as the CRB delegates prepare for the next round of food supplies to be passed out.

The good news? Tony and Peter have made it there in just over three hours.

The bad news? They spend two more getting split up in the crowd and searching for formula without a shred of hope.

“Sir, please. He’s just been born,” Peter begs a fellow CRB member unloading sacks of flour off one of many relief ships, “He won’t make it if we don’t find something soon.”

“Peter,” the worker starts, placing another bag over his shoulder, “You know what it’s been like. Until this commission makes more headlines and donations, it’s only going to reach so far.”

“Yeah, I know, but-”

“I don’t know what else to tell you, kid! There might be a farm nearby. Maybe you can ask for some milk there.”

The booming horn of a navy vessel makes Peter jump and he sighs through his nose, “Sir, you know for a fact, there isn’t a cow to be seen in this entire country that isn’t considered German property.”

“Indeed,” the worker growls, eyes flicking over to something behind Peter as he pulls out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face and neck.

Peter follows his gaze, body freezing when he sees a group of soldiers leading a spotted red cow on to a covered army truck. He takes a few steps back, pulling out his CRB identification badge from his pocket.

“Don’t be a fool,” the worker comments, seeing the gears turn in the teen’s mind, “You don’t want to tangle with those men. They can’t be bribed like the ones at the border…Hey, you hearin’ me?”

Peter knows if he and Tony hadn’t been separated, his father would be saying the same thing, but the fear of seeing another still, ashen face, however small, drives him forward.

_Clusters of white lifebelts…white faces…frozen corpses…not being able to breathe as the stars watch him slowly suffocate…_

“Hey!” Peter gasps, legs wobbling down the plank and back on to the dock, “Excuse me! Wait!”

His hand shakes as he waves the card, forcing himself into a sprint to catch the soldiers before they can leave.

He succeeds, but with very little oxygen left, clutching his chest to try and compose himself now that he has the four men’s attention.

“American,” Peter pants, handing them the card, “I need…help. Do you speak any English?”

A chorus of laughter follows and Peter tries to smile with them, knowing it’s at his expense. “American. I need milk,” he adds, pointing to the cow, “Milk? Milk for baby?”

His arms give a rocking gesture in the hopes they would understand, “Baby?”

_Calm, Peter. Stay calm. Breathe._

One of the soldiers gives a genuine, warm grin to Peter, saying something in his native tongue before trying to gesture a sign for a bucket, or so Peter guesses, “Milch? Milch, ja?” he adds, taking a drag of a cigarette and patting the cow’s thick, dusty hide.

“Yes, milk!” Peter nods in enthusiasm, taking a few steps forward before bending to clutch his knees.

The soldier to his right slaps the other one on the back of the head, yelling out his objections to the peaceful interaction and marching up to Peter. “Amis,” he seethes out, spitting on Peter’s shoes and shoving him back with his rifle. “Verschwind dich!”

Peter’s nostrils flare, raising his hands and backing up further, heat flushing through his lean frame as he stares away in submission.

And oh, how he hates himself in that moment, knowing that, were he in a trench with the other men at the front, he’d most likely be rat food by now. As the soldiers finish their task, he watches them drive away and out of sight, blinking away the burning in the corners of his eyes.

“I can help.”

Peter whirls around at the voice, rendered speechless when he makes eye contact with an approaching young woman.

She stands a few inches taller than him, a wool blanket covering her head and wrapped tight around thin shoulders, dark umber curls framing her brown skin like the night sky does a harvest moon.

The pounding in Peter’s chest is an entirely new sensation and he isn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“I wasn’t spying on you,” the girl adds, “I just happened to overhear your…that whole thing.”

_Speak, Peter! Say something, you idiot!_

“O-Oh, sorry. Thank you. Thank you so much,” Peter finally breathes out, moving a few strides closer to her. “We’d uh…I’d almost given up hope. He’s just hours old and…um…Are you here with the CRB?” Her accent matched perfectly with his, further piquing his curiosity.

“Where is it?” she asks instead of answering, looking to her left and right.

“What?”

“The baby?”

Peter snaps from his trance, “Oh, right,” he says, pointing eastward, “Brussels, that direction. We’re with a group of orphans right now, my dad and I…Will this be enough…for the formula?” He pulls some money from his pocket, handing her all of what he carries.

Though her expression shares she is taken aback by such a large sum, she puts up a hand to refuse it, “Oh. I don’t…have formula.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, lips pursed as he stuffs the money away again, “Oh. But I thought you said-“

“I said I can help,” the girl interrupts. Another strand of her hair falls forward when she dips her chin down for a second.

Peter continues staring as she shuffles her worn leather shoes in the dirt.

“I can feed him,” she continues, her tone pleading with his innocence for no further explanations.

Peter feels the heat down to his toes, jaw opening and closing like a door ready to fly off its hinges.

“Oh. Oh,” he stammers out, resisting the urge to cough when his next gulp of air makes him wheeze more. “B-but…you’re…”

The girl's face darkens, all matter of softness disappearing, “Starving infants don’t care what color skin their milk comes from, so long as it comes,” she replies, inhaling through her nose as she tries to pivot around him, “I hope you can find what you’re looking for.”

“No. Wait! Stop!” Peter grabs for her arm on instinct, releasing it as quickly as he’s latched on, “That’s not what-I didn’t mean…”

He pauses again, lying a hand over his chest, “Please forgive me. I just thought…I thought you sort of looked like a child, yourself.”

“A child?” the girl repeats, raising an eyebrow.

Peter shrugs, “Yeah, basically.”

It brings out the ghost of a smile to her lips, at least, “You mean like you?” she asks.

Peter straightens, lifting his chin even though it makes no difference in their stature comparisons, “Oh, I’m actually nearly eighteen.”

_Never mind that it’s still months away…_

“Then we’re the same age.”

“Oh. Nice.”

They both share awkward smiles before Peter reaches out his hand.

“I’m Peter.”

“Michelle,” the girl replies, shaking it with her own before burying it back beneath the blanket. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Peter says, doing another scan for Tony or any sign of a family member that might belong to his new friend. “So, is your…I mean…what about _your_ baby though?”

“Peter!” a familiar voice calls to his left.

_Tony. Thank God._

“Kid, you alright? We might have to travel a bit more if we’re ever gonna find that stuff, but you’re not looking so…” Tony stops his ramblings when he sees their saving grace, “Oh…Hi.”

Peter’s cheeks flush again, despite his best efforts, “Dad, this is Michelle. She’s offered to help us.”

“Great,” Tony says with a casual air, retrieving his wallet from inside his coat, “And how much do we owe you?”

Peter is quick to push the other man’s hand down, hoping their obvious wealth was neither intimidating or offensive, “Dad, stop, it’s not-“

“A hot meal,” Michelle speaks over him, “Please…thank you.”

Peter catches the desperate hunger in the whites of her eyes as the request leaves her lips, the urgent undertones lending to the evidence as her gaze wanders down again.

“Honey, you can have anything you want,” Tony replies, “Anything at all. Where do you live? We’ll gather up your things before we head back.”

Peter turns to look at his father, chest swelling in gratitude at the man’s intelligence…the ability to realize the situation all on his own.

“It’s just me,” Michelle says, shrugging her shoulders and looking back at the raided buildings, “I don’t really…need to go back for anything.”

It’s all the information she’s willing to give at the moment, and Peter’s insides twist at the thought of what sort of horrors she may have recently faced.

Tony is the first to reply when Peter can’t seem to form the words. “Okay. We’ll sort the rest out when we get back to the house. Shall we?” He makes a gesture towards the two horses standing impatient by a demolished café behind them.

Making their way towards the gentle giants, Peter stretches out his hand to help Michelle mount his bay, but she moves to the dapple-grey steed instead. Her tired eyes lock with his for a split second before she moves closer to Tony.

Peter pulls his arm back to himself, fiddling with one of the shiny brass buttons on his vest before climbing on to his own horse.

Tony looks up at him too and Peter isn’t quite sure why it brings the heat back to his face.

“Alright, Michelle, this is Happy. Happy, meet Michelle,” Tony introduces the girl to the tall thoroughbred, assisting her foot in the stirrup as she insists she can do it herself. The speckled horse snorts and nips at his master’s coat, letting the millionaire know he hasn’t the time for any of this.

“Yes, we know you’re crabby,” Tony says, rubbing the animal’s neck in apology.

Waiting for Michelle to settle, he pulls himself up in front of her, waiting for the girl to cling to him before instructing the horse to walk on. “Hope you like kids, little miss. They might be a little grubby at first, but somehow they always manage to grow on you,” he turns to Peter, giving him a wink and chuckling when the teen sticks his tongue out at him.

“Alright, Hap, onward.”

The thoroughbred takes off like a shot at the order, willing the Bay, with her lone teenage rider, to follow his lead.

As they race to beat the setting sun, Peter’s mind races in loops of its own.

_Would they get home in time?_

_Is the baby still alive?_

_Will their efforts be enough?_

Other questions press harder for more attention, but he swats them all away, knowing that this new girl’s life was none of his business to begin with and she’s already lingered too long in his thoughts as it is.


	2. Latching On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Looks like another black-out tonight. You doing alright back there, Pete?” Tony asks, breath turning to puffs of vapor lit by the lantern light he carries with him.  
> Along with many other strict regulations the town is forced to obey, there are occasions when the Germans demand all electricity be put out throughout the city in order to blind the crews of allied aircraft or resistance groups from being able to identify landing points.  
> Peter doesn’t hear the question, staying focused on his father’s light rather than the black closing in around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we’re back. Thank you all SO much for all of the positive feedback after such a long absence. Some of you had me in tears! I love you!! I truly am trying to get these chapters posted in a timely manner, but this gal is just BUSY…and stressed, if truth be told. Thank you ever so much for your patience! Enjoy!

The horses slow as they reach Brussels, steam rising off their warm bodies as they carry their riders through the sleeping town and towards the mansion of orphans hidden in the trees.

“Looks like another black-out tonight. You doing alright back there, Pete?” Tony asks, breath turning to puffs of vapor lit by the lantern light he carries with him.

Along with many other strict regulations the town is forced to obey, there are occasions when the Germans demand all electricity be put out throughout the city in order to blind the crews of allied aircraft or resistance groups from being able to identify landing points.

Peter doesn’t hear the question, staying focused on his father’s light rather than the black closing in around him.

_“It’s almost over, son…almost over.”_

_Captain Roger’s voice bleeds together with scraping metal…flickering sparks…blood-curdling screams…sudden, irreversible darkness followed by ice and death._

_Almost over._

_Almost over._

“Peter?”

Peter doesn’t realize he’s been whispering the sentence aloud until the horses halt on command.

A pair of faces stare back at him and he’s quick to explain, “What? Yeah. I’m fine. Just thinking out loud…like I do…sometimes.”

Michelle faces forward again, but he isn’t fooling Tony for anything. His father’s eyes peer into his soul with ease and Peter dreads the talk they’re sure to have at some point tonight.

The horses walk on again, cobblestone path fading into dirt as the temperature dips. Thunder clouds disperse overhead, the sharp smell of pine wafting from thick walls of branches until they finally reach a clearing.

Happy lets out an exuberant whinny, throwing his head up with a snort.

“Yeah, we know, Hap. Shhh.” Tony laughs under his breath, “Eh, well, I guess one of us needed the announcement,” he adds towards Michelle’s direction, “Home, sweet home…or something like it.”

Peter relishes the blood flowing back to his fingers and toes as they arrive, oxygen filling his lungs as the blessed calm returns. He stalls Tony with chatter just long enough for the tingling in his extremities to cease so he can climb down from Karen without incident.

The millionaire follows suit, letting Michelle ease off the horse herself and reaching for both sets of reins. “Pete, you kids get inside. I’ll take care of the horses.”

Peter keeps a hand on the saddle, a subtle way of protesting and steadying himself at the same time, “What about curfew? It’s dangerous.”

Tony pulls the horses towards the barn, forcing Peter to move to the side, “I’ll be fine, kid. Baby first.”

With the lantern moving further and further away, Peter’s left with no choice but to lead Michelle into the house. She stares up at the building as if it might swallow her up. “It’s…um…nicer inside,” he offers, walking up to the door and pulling a key from his pocket.

Jarvis beats him to, throwing open the door and all but ripping the pair inside.

With the door shutting fast behind them, Peter is met with a stampede of boys running down the stairs, each one attempting to reach him first.

“Peter!!”

“It’s Peter!!”

“He’s back! Peter’s back!”

“Je bent terug!” 

“Where’s Mr. Stark?” 

“Tu me manques!” 

“Did you find the milk, Peter? You did, didn’t you?”

“Peter! We thought the Kaiser took you!”

“No way! Mr. Stark would never let that happen!”

“Look! It’s a girl!”

Peter laughs as they all surround him, opening his arms to receive them one at a time, “What are you all doing up, huh? It is well past bedtime. What will Mr. Stark say?”

Jarvis clears his throat next to the mob, holding up an iron candelabra with his left arm and cradling the baby with his right, his stoic shadow dancing on the textured wallpaper beside him, “I did my utmost to domesticate the lot of them, sir, but when they promised to stay on their best behavior in order to remain awake for your return, I made the conscious decision to allow it. It seemed reasonable, what with the infant.

Peter straightens at the explanation, taking in the valet’s rather disheveled appearance and smiling with a wince, “Dear Jarvis. You deserve a medal for bravery,” he replies, “Maybe two.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jarvis says, standing at attention like the dutiful soldier he is.

Michelle gapes at the loyal servant, turning to Peter for answers, “A British citizen residing in Belgium?” she whispers, “How is he not dead yet?”

Peter grins. “You don’t know my dad,” he replies, “Besides, Jarvis is technically an American citizen.”

Jarvis holds a smile at bay, “Indeed, sir. More or less.”

The boys continue to crowd and chatter, wanting to know more about Michelle and what happened on their travels to Ostend.

“Gentleman, gentlemen, we shall explain everything in the morning. Right now, it’s time to start winding down,” Peter says.

Grumbles and whines echo off the entry walls as lips jut out in pouts, several of them morphing into yawns.

Peter crouches back down to meet their level, “Okay, I’ll tell you what. If you guys hurry and get yourselves to bed, I’ll bake us all a cake tomorrow.”

Screams and shouts change the mood in a flash with the children bouncing up and down in one accord.

“With real icing?” one of them asks with fists balled tight.

“No,” Peter replies, matter of fact, “You boys know sugar’s in short supply and we can’t really afford to waste it on little orphans who don’t follow direct-of course, real icing, Morten!”

Laughter and cheers erupt as the boys closest to Morten exchange tight hugs with each other.

“I’ll even throw in the last bit of dried fruit left in the pantry. Now off to bed! Shoo!” Peter says, waving them all away towards the stairs and making sure they did what they were told.

“Peter,” a tiny voice murmurs, “Will you give me a goodnight kiss like mummy again?”

The only remaining child tugs on Peter’s tweed trousers, staring up at him with big blue eyes and pink, freckled cheeks.

Peter scoops the four-year-old up, letting the little boy’s legs dangle out in front of him, “Oh, alright. One for the right,” he says, giving the boy’s cheek a loud smooch and sending him into giggles, “and another for the left,” he adds, repeating the action to the other side. “Now, run along, Timmy.”

Timmy hesitates when his toes touch the floor, hanging on to one of Peter’s thumbs before he remembers the conditional cake. “Goodnight, Peter. Goodnight, Jarvis. Goodnight, new girl.”

“Goodnight,” the teenagers reply together, locking eyes and turning back to Jarvis.

“Oh gosh, the baby!” Peter says, rushing to the infant in the older man’s arms.

“I can take him.”

Michelle pivots around him, lifting the swaddled creature into her arms as Jarvis nods his thanks before seeing to the other children upstairs.

Shrouded in darkness once again, the pair stand in silence before the jostled baby rouses, its lungs making another attempt at screaming for nourishment.

“He’s pretty weak,” Michelle whispers.

Peter pales at the observation, running two fingers down the baby’s crown of peach fuzz, “Is he gonna be okay?”

Michelle’s gaze flits about her surroundings, “I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.”

“What do we do?” Peter asks, genuine in the critical moment and awaiting his next move.

Michelle blinks in the dark, clearing her throat, “Do you have a chair or a…couch of some kind?”

“Oh,” Peter cries, slapping his forehead,” Right. Sorry. Silly…I wasn’t-here, come with me.”

He leads Michelle into a sitting room with a sizable bluestone hearth, ushering her to the sofa across from it before building a fire, “I’ll just get this started really quick and then I promise, I’ll be out of your hair.”

He strikes a match on the stone, bringing it towards the stack of wood and kindling, thankful for the light it brings when it starts devouring the dry material. He blows on the embers to further fuel his work, sending clouds of cedar smoke up the chimney. 

The baby continues to scream, rushing the teen along until the flames are sufficient.

“There,” he says, at last, panting a bit and dusting the soot from his knees, “That…should do it.”

“Thank you,” Michelle says, shifting the baby around in her arms.

“You’re welcome,” Peter replies, striking another match and lighting up an oil lantern as well, “I’ll just go…make that hot meal you requested. The kitchen’s right down the hall if you need anything,” he adds before heading for the door.

“Wait.”

Peter stops in his tracks, keeping his eyes fixed ahead.

“Can you leave the door open?” she asks him.

“Yeah. Of course,” Peter replies, pushing it back as far as It will go, “Will you be alright?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Peter catches the trembling in Michelle’s voice despite her attempt to hide it.

Was she afraid of the dark too?

“Just in case I need to call for some help…with the baby,” she continues.

Peter fiddles with the doorknob, biting the insides of his pursed lips. “Do you want me to…? I mean, I could stay. Maybe just stand here, facing away from you, of course-so you can-because you might not feel comfortable with-No. Gosh, sorry. That’s inappropriate-”

“Yes,” Michelle interjects.

Peter freezes. “Yes…like you want me to stay?” he asks, gawking into the dark hallway.

“Yes.”

“Oh…Okay…Yeah, I’ll-“

A stack of books crashes to the floor as Peter walks back towards the other side of the couch, “Sorry. That was-I’ll just sit here.”

Michelle shuffles her clothing around some more. The ceiling above quakes with the pitter-patter of little feet running across the halls in the upper rooms as the fire crackles, warming Peter’s twiddling thumbs.

“So, is he…is it working?” he asks when the baby continues fussing, wishing he could be more useful to the situation.

“I don’t know,” Michelle lets out a drawn-out sigh, “I remember someone telling me, once, that abandoned babies always have a harder time latching…and I haven’t eaten in a while.”

“Oh,” Peter replies, face hot without the aid of the fire as he folds his hands between his knees, “That makes sense.”

Tony’s delay with the horses coupled with the infant’s uncertain future sends his right leg bouncing as he breathes out slowly through his nose.

And then, a merciful shift; the pitiful squeaks behind him dissolve into soft breaths and greedy grunts.

“He did it,” Michelle gasps, “He figured it out.”

Peter grins, tilting his face to the ceiling, warmth spreading throughout his chest, “Good job, buddy.”

The hungry suckling carries on for some time after that.

Peter searches for words and topics to fill the quiet but his mind comes up short, too preoccupied with burning questions swimming back to his thoughts now that the adrenaline’s gone.

Another thirty minutes pass; the mahogany clock sitting atop the mantel chimes ten times.

_Tony, where are you?_

“Hey.”

The soft call pulls Peter from his thoughts and he turns a bit before thinking better of it.

“He’s asleep,” Michelle continues.

Peter pivots just enough to show his smile, “That’s great.”

“You can turn around now, goof. It’s safe.”

With Michelle’s permission, Peter faces her.

His cheeks flush anew as he’s met with her hint of a smile, heart throbbing in his chest just as it had done at the docks. It throws him for a loop this time as well.

The infant lies, sprawled out, over her lap, tiny fists hanging, limp, above his head, naked chest bobbing up and down and milk droplets clinging to the corners of his mouth and dripping down his chin.

“Look at you, mate,” Peter chuckles under his breath, scooting closer, “…bit like a drunken sailor.”

Michelle sniffs in amusement, drawing gentle circles over the baby’s temples with her thumbs.

Peter wonders if it’s a trick of the firelight or if those are tears welling beneath the girl’s fluttering eyelashes. “I can take him…if you want. Do you want me to?” he asks, reaching out.

Michelle shakes her head and clears her throat, “He’s content,” she replies, keeping her gaze down on her charge.

Peter nods, bending over to straighten out the tassels on the rug beneath his feet, “Thank you,” he says, “Tonight, would’ve turned out very different if you hadn’t come along.”

The baby coos in its sleep, a subconscious agreement to the statement.

“Glad I could help,” Michelle replies, tapping her shoes together, “What will you call him?”

Peter sits back up, folding his arms, “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about-”

The door leading to the outside porch flies open, sending Peter jumping up to block the threat.

Tony steps into the light with his hands up, “Whoa, Nelly. It’s just me.”

The teen slumps in relief, clutching his chest, “Dad.”

He rushes over to help the man out of his coat, tossing it on to a chair and pulling the boots off next. “Come sit by the fire. It’s freezing out there.”

“Yes, mother,” Tony replies, “How’s the little peep?”

Peter gestures back to Michelle, “See for yourself.”

Tony nods at Michelle, giving her space, but leaning in to take a quick peek at the infant, “Yep. That’s a satisfied customer if I ever saw one.”

Peter’s face twists and Michelle smirks.

“Sorry, inappropriate,” Tony adds with a wave of his hand. He strolls towards the bookcase next to where he’s just entered, slipping a lace handkerchief from his breast pocket and stuffing it between a long row of encyclopedias before turning about-face with a piece of chocolate wrapped in parchment.

“I’ve been saving this for a special occasion,” he says, breaking off a piece and holding it between his teeth, “Chocolate Praline?”

He offers the treat to Michelle, pleased when she accepts and takes a piece for herself.

“You know the guy who invented these lives right here in Brussels?” Tony pauses to finish eating what’s in his mouth, handing Peter three chunks and winking at him before sharing the rest of the history lesson, “His father was a pharmacist who wanted to coat his nasty medication with chocolate so people could tolerate it better. After he kicked the can, his son turned the apothecary into a sweet shop and invented this little marvel. World’s first chocolate with a soft filling, now, exclusively, enjoyed by a small group of elitists and, consequently, a house full of orphans…indefinitely or, you know, until this war finally ends.”

“Did you know that the chocolate here used to be imported from the Congo until about six years ago?” Michelle says, turning to look behind the couch at her host, “The king, at the time, enslaved the people there and made his soldiers hack off their right hands and have them kept for stock-taking if they didn’t meet their quota on time.”

Peter’s wide eyes catch hers for a moment, but she isn’t finished.

“Some of the Belgians say Leopold II was the revived spirit of Antigon, a giant from Belgium legend, who terrorized people by demanding tolls from his laborers. If they couldn’t pay, he’d chop off their hand and throw it in the river.”

Tony clears his throat, looking back and forth between the pair, “That’s-”

“The chocolate’s really delicious though,” Michelle says, turning her attention back to the baby.

Tony works the last piece around in his mouth, furrowing his brow as he chokes it down, “Nope. I think it’s…lost its flavor, actually. Pete, you want to…uh…ask those guys, out there, for their opinions?”

Peter turns to the open door, his jaw dropping as two familiar faces step inside.

“Uncle Steve!” he cries, embracing the taller man. Captain Rogers returns the hug, ruffling the boy’s curls.

“Been a while, kid,” the soldier says, leaning closer to Peter’s ear, “Who’s the girl?”  
Peter nudges his ribs with his elbow, “Stop,” he seethes, attempting to bite back a smile when Steve chuckles.

“For a second I thought you forgot we were out there,” the shorter man says, lying a briefcase down next to Tony’s boots.

“Eh, you know it was fun to surprise your nephew, Brucey.” Tony laughs as Peter moves to hug the doctor next.

“So, what’s…What is this?” Peter asks, turning to Steve, “I thought you were delegating in Antwerp. And Uncle Bruce, weren’t you supposed to be in northern France by now?”

Tony puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, “Uh, correct. Bruce is headed there tonight. We’re just touching base with some CRB…issues.”

Peter drops his smile, unsatisfied with the cryptic explanation, “Uh-huh. And this is the part where you tell me to run along and play, right?” he says, crossing his arms, “Lest you gentlemen forget, I’m just shy of being a full-fledged adult. You’ll have to come up with a different excuse to keep me away in a couple more months.”

The three men say nothing in reply, staring downwards and smirking as Peter lets his gaze linger on his father.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’ll make sure you get the notes,” Tony says, almost successful in making the teen crack a smile.

Peter rolls his eyes, making his way back to Michelle and the infant when he remembers introductions.

“Oh, sorry. I-I didn’t-I’m being rude,” he stutters, gesturing back to his mentors. “Michelle, this is Captain Steve Rogers and Doctor Bruce Banner. They’re close friends of ours and members of the CRB.”

The surprise guests nod with soft greetings as the girl responds in kind.

“Michelle’s helping us care for the newest orphan that arrived today.” Peter continues.

“And I should probably go and…cook her some dinner. It’s getting late.”

He leans down to pick up the infant, making sure it’s agreeable to her before he does, “You…wanna come with me, get some food?” he asks, helping her up once the baby is secure in the crook of his arm.

Michelle hesitates before letting him lead her back out to the hallway, wrapping her blanket back around her frame.

Peter swivels back inside, remembering to take one of the lanterns he’s lit before grabbing for the door to shut it behind him. “We’ll be back,” he says, leaving the others to commence with their secrets.

……..

“Where did you find a wet nurse?” Bruce asks later when they settle around by the fire.

Tony thanks Jarvis as the valet places a hot cup of coffee into his hands, taking a swig of the black drink. “Not a wet nurse,” he replies, “And she found us…by some miracle. Sad to say, I believe she might’ve already seen the darkest side of this war.”

Steve clenches his jaw, pressing his folded hands tightly together at the explanation.

“So, Peter…he seems a little smitten,” Bruce says, pouring cream into his cup, “Or is it just me?”

Tony sighs loud through his nose, “Oh, he’s done for,” he replies, rubbing his temples, “I’m a hundred percent sure he hasn’t even figured out what’s happening to him yet. Poor kid.”

“Peter’s right though, Tony,” Steve comments, “He is becoming a man.”

Tony groans, rubbing the back of his neck, “Thanks for that, Captain Obvious.”

Steve squeezes his friend’s shoulder, exchanging glances with Bruce.

“Switching topics. What do we got?” Tony asks, pulling a table over and retrieving the lace still hidden in the encyclopedias. “We can start by turning this in. _The Avengers Resistance_ will crack it tomorrow if the _La Dame Blanche_ isn’t successful.”

The three men had worked alongside various organizations in Belgium and northern France before the war was even announced to the public. _Avengers Resistance_ was a group of remarkable people with enhanced or special abilities, fighting against worldwide evils, no matter how great or little the threat might be.

Already, networks, such as _La Dame Blanche_ , based in the Belgian city of Liège, provided the Avengers and Allies valuable information on the movement of German troop trains. Typed, encrypted reports were either smuggled across the border into the Netherlands or sent to France across German lines by carrier pigeon.

Special codes interwoven into lace doilies is a brand-new way to gain information, thanks, in part, to the brave Belgian women willing to work against the Kaiser. The CRB currently uses lace to further their cause by selling them to generous people in Allied countries anyway, making it easy to hide their efforts in plain sight.

Herbert Hoover’s recent speech to the delegates pierces Tony’s thoughts as they delve into military secrets, pressing an ever-growing burden upon his shoulders at the reminder that these operations go against everything the CRB stands for.

_“Gentlemen, you must forget that the greatest war in history is being waged,”_ Hoover had stated, _“You have no interest in it other than the feeding of the Belgian people, and you must school yourselves to a realization that you have to us and to your country a sacred obligation of absolute neutrality in every word and deed.”_

Getting caught means death by firing squad, but it also threatens his son’s life, the orphans, and the reputation of the American-run organization.

Two hours pass as quiet assessments and careful planning take place between the trio, their next covert mission already in the works as Bruce throws an envelope of information into the fire.

“Everybody clear?” Tony asks, swallowing the last of his cold coffee and rising to his feet.

The other two nod, following suit.

“Oh, Bruce, if you wouldn’t mind checking on the new addition-”

“You got it, Tony,” the doctor interjects, “I’ll get my kit.”

“Peter too.”

Bruce pushes his glasses further up his nose, “Is it his lungs?”

Tony gathers the scattered cups back on to a tray, shrugging his shoulders as he forms his thoughts.

“He’s alright. You saw him,” he says, “Just a precaution. He’s just been pushing himself too hard-”

A knock on the door interrupts him.

“Enter,” he calls quietly, motioning for the conversation to end, “Hey, kid. Come on in.”

Peter walks in the room with Michelle following behind, her countenance somewhat lifted in having some sustenance in her.

“How was the meal, little miss?” Tony asks.

“Filling,” Michelle replies, the corners of her mouth turning up as she finds her earlier spot on the sofa with the baby.

“Wait till he starts baking for you, then you’ll turn out like me,” Tony replies, pushing his belly out and patting it.

Peter shakes his head, grabbing a folded afghan from the chest in the corner and placing it next to her, “He’ll put away a dozen scones in a day when we have the ingredients.”

“Highly exaggerated,” Tony shoots back, “Steve helps me.”

Steve raises his brow, smirking at the lie.

“Peter, how’s about bringing the little guy into another room where I can examine him,” Bruce asks, moving to the door where he’s left his case and grabbing the lantern, “I’ll need to be heading out here in a bit.”

“Sure,” Peter says, picking up the baby when Michelle offers him back.

“He’s going to need to eat again soon…maybe a half-hour at the most,” she tells him, empty arms dropping to her lap.

Peter nods, pressing his lips together when the girl’s eyes well up again, “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll bring him right back.”

“I’m not worried,” Michelle says, her expression flattening, “It’s just a newborn thing.”

“Oh. Okay.” Peter brings the baby closer, avoiding the other faces in the room that’s, now, gone quiet as he follows the doctor back down the hall and into the kitchen.

The sweet smell of molasses, oatmeal, and raisins still lingers inside the dark, cluttered room. Michelle had requested the breakfast meal not only to satisfy her hunger but for the baby as well, knowing she needed to give her body a boost if she was to carry on feeding him.

“Set him here on the counter. You can keep the blanket under him,” Bruce says, setting down the lantern and pulling a stethoscope out of his briefcase.

Peter watches on as the doctor tugs back the blankets, keeping the baby as comfortable as possible as he carries out his examination.

“He seems underweight, but that can be normal,” Bruce explains, extending tiny limbs and feelings for any abnormalities, “He’s a cute little guy.”

He checks the infant’s head and reflexes last, shushing its cries when it’s exposed to the cold.

Peter resists the urge to bring comfort, knowing Bruce is fully capable.

Just as the doctor finishes his work, Tony walks in, shutting the door behind him, “Sounds like you boys could use an extra set of hands.”

“We’re all done, actually,” Peter replies, waiting for the baby to be handed back to him.

“Are we?” Tony asks, moving around his son and taking charge of the tiny creature instead.

It takes another second for Peter to process what’s going on and when it clicks, he drags a hand through his hair.

“Dad.”

Tony faces the teen, trying to make eye contact and failing. “Kid, it’s been a busy, stressful couple of months-”

“And I’ve been managing just fine-”

“Yes, you have. No doubt about that. Let’s just chalk this up to parental paranoia-”

Peter closes his eyes, struggling halfheartedly to get away, “I told you I’m fine,” he whispers, “Really. Just-”

“Humor me,” Tony says, “Please. I’ll leave you be for the next six months-”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Alright, we’ll go with a year…tentatively.”

Peter turns to Bruce, shoulders slumping, “It’s not like anything’s changed,” he groans, stripping off his shirt and jumping up to sit on the counter. “I cough all the time…I’m always short of breath and I’m tired. The usual.”

Bruce brings the stethoscope to Peter’s skin, giving the teen a reassuring smile. “Deep breath for me, kid.”

Peter obeys, hating the crackling it brings. His thin fingers search around the wood surface beneath him, finding a few scattered oats and crunching them with his thumbnail.

“Couple more,” Bruce instructs, placing the chest-piece in different spots as he listens, moving to Peter’s back next.

The teen avoids Tony’s gaze as the wheezing sound dominates the space more with each breath he takes.

At last, Bruce throws the stethoscope back around his neck, revealing no hint of a diagnosis on his features. “Ever heard of Madame Curie, kid?” he asks, grabbing some papers from his case and sliding it next to Peter’s shirt to make some room on the counter.

Peter purses his lips, “She’s a…physicist, right? She won the Nobel peace prize for her discoveries of polonium and radium recently…the first woman in history to get one.”

Bruce nods, “She’s also an acquaintance of mine.”

Tony wraps the blanket more securely around the baby, “How is ol’ radioactive? She hasn’t beaten us to another new element yet, has she?”

“Wouldn’t shock me,” Bruce replies, bringing his attention back to the papers and lifting the lantern over, “See these drawings, kid?”

“What are they?” Peter asks, squinting in the dark.

“They’re her life’s work. I just spoke with her this morning. This is the future of medical advancements coming to life before our eyes.”

He points to the sketch of a rib cage and spine and another of the bones of a hand, “She and her husband have created a device called an X-ray. It shows pictures of the human body using a penetrating form of high-energy electromagnetic radiation.”

“Whoa,” Peter says, looking back up to Bruce, “Does it hurt?”

“Not at all…Curie and other doctors are using five of them at the front lines as we speak.”

Peter squares his shoulders, “…and you think I should have it done.

Bruce pauses, stacking the papers and placing them back in the case, “Only if you’re willing, kid. Tony and I aren’t going to force you into anything.” He hands the teen back his shirt, checking his watch for the time.

“You think it over and contact me when you’ve decided, alright?”

Peter nods his head, pulling his shirt back on and fiddling with the long line of buttons.

And then, it all happens at once.

The baby fusses awake.

Steve enters, looking a bit lost as Tony hands him the squalling creature to free up his arms.

Bruce makes haste in his goodbyes, leaving out the back door in case any eyes are still watching and Michelle and Jarvis arrive too, hearing the distressing sounds of the newborn.

No one catches the silent stowaway from Bruce’s briefcase climbing freely over the counter…

…a spider the size of a quarter, red flecks scattered over its hairy abdomen, brownish-black legs leading it, quick, to its inevitable fate, straight up the sleeve of a particular teenage boy.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you or all of you may have picked up on a few lines where Peter seems utterly British. My excuse is that if Tom Holland can lose his accent and pick up our slang at times then my Peter Parker(living in Southampton for years) can and would certainly pick up on some British slang as well, am I right??  
> *crickets*  
> Okay. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it! I really hope you all liked this chapter. As always, I endeavor to make it as historically accurate as possible, but if you see some flaws, please do forgive this dorky, uneducated nerd. She be trying her hardest! ;D  
> More to come!!


	3. Sticky Situations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter bites down on a scream, fingers pressing against his chest and flopping back against the armrest of the couch.  
> He feels Tony grab his shoulders, but he can't seem to focus on the man, vaguely aware of his surroundings as he holds another scream at bay.  
> "It's bad…it's really bad!"  
> "Peter? Peter Stark. Can you hear me? Come on, buddy. Talk to me. What hurts?"  
> There's a panic in his father's tone. Peter works at answering the question, a long moan spilling out as he tries to make his limbs do what he needs them to do.  
> "Chest," he finally gets out, "My chest is burning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, at long last, it's here. I'll leave out the string of apologies for my absence and just let everyone get right to the chapter. Thank you all for sticking with me despite my issues of late.

Peter is used to phantom pains vibrating up his arms and legs at inopportune times.

Nothing's been the same since the sinking. It's something that takes adjusting to, amongst the many other health-related problems that have come from the accident.

So, it's no surprise to him when a new stinging sensation shoots, deep, through his left pectoral muscle.

It's fine.

The conversation he's having with Michelle is distraction enough, though it isn't a comfort by any stretch.

With Bruce now well on his way to the train for Northern France in the black of night, and Tony and Steve conversing down the hall with the infant, he's done his best to make small talk with the girl, and in doing so, is now tripping over his words and sharing every baking technique he's picked up on in the last two years…how big their cast-iron ovens were back at the manor…the staff they've acquired for the Southampton Bakery and how he and Tony keep all of their jobs secure during these uncertain times, even though they're over here in Belgium. He even shares some of the orphan's stories, hoping she doesn't find the conversation dull.

'Shut up, Peter! Shut up,' he thinks, but his mouth continues to run, unwilling to go down any of the dark paths of his mind with her, knowing she holds no desire for him to walk down into hers.

"Well, I envy you," Michelle says, at last, staring into the candlelight on the wood counter, "Living your whole life dealing with the problems of others rather than your own."

Peter blinks at her, opening and closing his mouth and letting out a nervous chuckle, beads of sweat forming at his hairline, "It's um…it hasn't always been…like this."

Michelle's eyes narrow, curiosity on her brow, "Your father's well known," she says with a soft smile, "What could a spoiled little rich boy know of hardship?"

Peter presses his lips together as another round of stabbing pain throbs in his breast.

"I'm sorry," Michelle is quick to add, folding her hands together, "I didn't mean-"

"Sounds like you've got me all figured out," Peter breathes, bringing a hand over his heart, "I'm sorry. Could you just…give me a minute? I'll be right back."

The girl reaches her hand out to stop him, but he flies for the door, face burning for multiple reasons as he seeks out his father.

He finds the man still standing in the hall, infant asleep in his arms and Steve at his side, visible by the light coming from the fireplace in the sitting room.

"Kid, you alright?" Tony asks, passing the baby back to Steve, much to the soldier's discomfort.

Peter's stomach drops when he hears the voice, clenching his jaw at his weakness, "I think I'm…"

Tony doesn't need further explanation, grabbing Peter by the arm, he nods to Steve and guides him into the room, shutting the door behind them before they sit together on the couch.

Peter rocks himself back and forth, punching the cushion beneath him and growling through his teeth. He goes to hit his head next when a hand grabs his wrist.

"Hey-hey-hey, stop." Tony whispers, "You're alright-"

Peter shakes his head; the warmth from the fire makes him want to vomit. Michelle must be wondering where he went. Maybe she'll misjudge him a second time and believe he's throwing a temper tantrum. The thought makes his insides roll.

"I know it's been a while since either of us has dealt with this crap, but you'll make it through this next one and come out all the stronger."

"Feels different…" Peter gasps, "Something's wrong."

Tony rubs circles over the boy's back, a long sigh escaping through his nose, "You say that every time, bud. All the warning signs were there today. I know you know what I'm talking about. Anyway, the faster we ride this one out, the faster you can get some shut-eye," he says, carrying on in his ministrations, "And then in the morning, you can bake your new lady-friend one of those magical scones that make people fall in love with y-"

Peter pushes away from him, cracking a smile.

"Huh? Huh?" Tony continues teasing, pulling the boy back to his side.

"…'s not like that."

"No?"

"No…she's…"

"Alone? In need of a family? Why does this sound so familiar?"

"Dad, she didn't ask for…our help, alright? She's the one helping us. I don't think," Peter pauses to catch his breath again, "Maybe she doesn't want our help…And anyway, we just met her. Don't be creepy."

Tony raises his hands in surrender, the many lines on his face crinkling into a grin, "Hey, look, kid. I don't know what the future holds, but regardless if sparks start flying or not, I know an infatuation when I see it."

Peter's wheezing continues as he closes his eyes, mind ripping him back to his body's current state, "Let's…talk about…something else," he says through labored pants, "Please."

Tony gives a gentle squeeze to Peter's neck, "Sorry. A failed attempt at distraction. Take some more deep breaths. It'll be over soon."

Peter wants to believe it. The reassurance used to ease him through the shortness of breath, the terror, and flashbacks piercing his mind like poisoned arrows.

Only there aren't any flashbacks this time. There's just wheezing, panic and-

Peter bites down on a scream, fingers pressing against his chest and flopping back against the armrest of the couch.

He feels Tony grab his shoulders, but he can't seem to focus on the man, vaguely aware of his surroundings as he holds another scream at bay.

"It's bad…it's really bad!"

"Peter? Peter Stark. Can you hear me? Come on, buddy. Talk to me. What hurts?"

There's a panic in his father's tone. Peter works at answering the question, a long moan spilling out as he tries to make his limbs do what he needs them to do.

"Chest," he finally gets out, "My chest is burning."

He hears a call for help, but it isn't his voice when suddenly two pairs of hands are touching him, holding him steady as the fire consumes him.

_"We're working on it, bud."_

_"Somebody, help me."_

_"Shhh. It's okay."_

…………………

A fish out of water.

It's the first thing that comes to Steve's mind when he sees Peter writhing on the couch with Tony calling the poor kid's name and cupping his face in his hands.

The soldier does what he can at the moment, giving a silent prayer of thanks when the boy has a moment of clarity.

"…'m sorry…sorry. I don't want to…wake the boys," Peter whimpers, digging his hands into his curls with bottom lip quivering.

Tony shushes him, wiping tears away and brushing plastered curls out of the teen's face, "The kids are fine. Jarvis is watching over their rooms as we speak."

"What if I'm dying," Peter says, keeping his eyes fixated on his father.

"That's enough of that," Tony replies matter-of-factly, "We're going to figure this out, Bruce couldn't have made too much ground," he adds, tapping beneath the boy's chin.

"I'll go," Steve says, heading for the door.

"No, you won't."

Tony crosses the room, staring up at Steve with his jaw set. "You might be able to outrun a horse, but the suit's still faster," he whispers, looking back to his son.

"And what if they see you? You're no good to Peter dead," Steve replies, grabbing for the doorknob.

"I made some modifications. They'll only be able to see me from one angle with the new thrusters…Cap, we don't have a second to lose."

"Yeah, but the kid needs you, not me."

"Precisely why I'm going and you're staying."

A sound from behind them sends Tony back to Peter's side and the soldier follows, unsure of both he and Tony's abilities.

Peter lets out a repetitive string of moans, succumbing to fresh waves of pain as Tony props a stack of pillows beneath his legs.

"Alright, kid. Uncle Steve's gonna stay with you for a little while. I'll be back before you know it with the doc in tow."

"No. Please, no," Peter cries, hands covering his face.

"Peter-."

"Please don't go-"

"Peter, look at me."

The boy is slow to surrender, brown eyes shining upwards.

"I promise…I will come back to you…just like I always have," Tony says, kissing the boy's cheek and giving no more room for debate, "Love you, kid."

It only takes a few seconds more for the father-figure to disappear on his mission, leaving behind his role for Steve to pick up, and though it is well out of his comfort zone, the soldier's never been one to shy away from a challenge. 

Peter's countenance morphs the moment Tony's gone, body going stiff and guarded as his gaze bores a hole in the ceiling. With comfort and safety out of sight, the kid seems to drift into some kind of guarded survival mode.

And Steve really should've insisted on being the one to go.

He starts to say something, but decides better of it, dragging a wooden rocking chair from the corner and setting it to where he can keep watch but stay out of sight for the boy's sake.

He studies the shadowy room down to the cups of cold coffee from earlier, counts the few cobwebs in between the picture frames above the mantel, and adds some wood to the fire before remembering the many books on the bookshelf behind them.

He glances back to see Peter is still frozen in place, eyes squeezed shut as his legs shuffle above the pillows.

Steve clears his throat and walks over to the books, folding his arms and scanning over the options. Most of the volumes are in Dutch or French, a reminder that this refuge house is temporary, that they were all a long way from home.

A title catches his eye. He pulls out the book with his index finger, thumbing through the pages of the novel to judge if it's good enough to bring back to his seat.

"Mr. Stark?"

The book slams shut, tossed back on the shelf as Steve rushes back to the couch.

Peter's face is bright red. Steve chalks it up to embarrassment until the shivering that follows has him checking the boy's brow.

"Kid," he says in alarm, "You're burning up."

"W-where is he?"

Steve bends closer, hoping Peter's vacant expression will change when he does. "Your dad went to get Dr. Banner. Remember?"

Vacancy disappears, swapped with confusion as Peter processes. "My dad?" he asks, teeth chattering and body wracking from another shiver.

"Peter, what's my name?" Steve asks, changing the subject, "Who am I?"

The boy's eyes roll back, lips murmuring something unintelligible as he shakes his head side to side.

"Come on, son. Focus." Steve continues, tapping Peter's cheeks.

With no verbal response, the soldier takes action, removing the pillows from the couch and unbuttoning Peter's shirt.

"Jarvis, you out there?" Steve calls, finishing with the last two buttons and peeling back the fabric.

The swelling pus-filled skin on the left side of Peter's chest is startling, but it's the crumbled body of a spider tumbling down to the carpet that brings a shudder up Steve's spine.

It isn't Jarvis that enters, but the young lady from earlier.

Though her eyes are wide as she takes in the sight of Peter lying there in distress, she remains calm, standing at attention and practically begging for orders.

Had she been standing behind the door the whole time?

"The baby's asleep. Tell me what to do," she says, never taking her eyes off the boy.

Steve doesn't bother to take Peter's shirt off the rest of the way, leaving it parted and scooping him up in his arms, "I need you to find me a basin of cold water, rags, and some vinegar. Ask Jarvis If you can't find anything and fill him in on what's happening."

Michelle turns away, faltering for a half-second, "Is he okay?"

Steve moves for the door to the outside, wishing he could say something positive, in truth, "Let's do our part and hope for the best…I've seen worse."

The girl nods and goes to her task, leaving Steve to his.

"Okay, kid. Just a few minutes out here, alright," he says more to himself than Peter, adding the apparent spider bite into the equation.

The temperature outside drops a few degrees below freezing as they're both enshrouded in darkness. Peter's shivers intensify, staring up at Steve and then to the crystal-clear night sky, full of stars.

"No, no, no," he whispers.

It takes a moment for Steve to understand the boy's distress.

Of course. The frigid night, two years ago. The heavens were twinkling just as bright.

"Take me back. Take me back!!"

"Son, we have to get your fever down.".

Peter fights against him, batting away shrieking ghosts of the past before they could drown him and rip off the lifebelt he's no longer wearing.

"We'll freeze out here! We'll freez-"

Steve squats down in the frost-covered dirt for a moment, pressing a hand over Peter's mouth. The last thing they need is to draw attention to the house with Tony somewhere out there, flying through the trees in an illegal, undiscovered rocket suit.

He softens as the desperate sounds continue beneath his fingers, knowing he's a poor substitute.

Tony would whisper comforts, hold him close and soothe in ways that only a father could.

The feelings of inadequacy take him back to dangling on the stern of the sinking ship, Peter clinging to him if only to avoid death a moment longer.

"I've got you," he says, just as he had then. "I've got you."

"Everything's ready," Michelle whispers out the door with Jarvis standing behind her. She returns inside with the valet remaining.

"The children have all turned in for the night, sir. May I be of service?" he asks.

"You're off the hook, Jarvis. Rest if you can," Steve replies, adjusting Peter in his arms and heading back towards the man.

"My place is at Mr. Stark's side, sir, and until he returns, I shall endeavor to stand watch over his boy."

Steve squeezes past the valet with his charge, "You've always been a loyal friend, Jarvis."

"Thank you, sir," the valet says, shutting the door behind them.

By the time Steve has Peter back inside, Michelle arranges everything on the coffee table, pulling it closer to the couch as their charge is put back on the cushions.

Steve takes a seat at the end, placing Peter's legs over his lap and untying the bootlaces.

Michelle doesn't take any time to bring a small stool over to sit between Peter and the basin of water. "He's fragile," she comments, wringing out a rag and lying it over Peter's forehead. "I noticed it when we met at the docks."

"His lungs aren't as strong as they used to be," Steve says, keeping the spider bite under wraps when he sees it's still covered up by a flap of fabric.

"He keeps calling for Mr. Stark," Michelle states as more of a question when Peter starts murmuring again.

Steve works off the other boot, setting it down and taking Peter’s wool socks off next.

"Yeah, the delirium seems to be sending him back a few years," he replies.

Michelle halts in her work, furrowing her brow and lifting her chin, "I don't understand."

Steve rolls up the boy's pant legs next, taking a moment to decide what is acceptable to share.

"Peter's adopted."

The girl's eyes widen, her expression unreadable to the soldier as she processes.

"Oh." she begins, "I didn't..."

"It's alright," Steve rescues her, "You couldn't have known."

Even so, Michelle swallows several times, taking the rag back and plunging it into the ice-cold water again. "So…what happened?"

"Tony found him working at a tiny bakery in Southampton a few years back. The kid's seen a lot...but…well, it's not really my story to tell, is it," Steve says, giving her a warm smile.

Michelle's gaze falls back to Peter, who is still in and out of awareness. She presses the rag to his forehead, causing a whine to emit from his parted lips. She lies the back of her hand against his jawline and then to his neck. Whether it is a comforting gesture or checking the boy's temperature is a mystery.

The two continue to talk in low whispers for a little longer with Jarvis observing, silent, on the other side of the room, and Peter ever-worsening in their limited regimen.

Steve is on the verge of pacing when he hears a familiar sound and a bit of light through the curtains. He prepares for anything when he sees a pair of silhouettes running closer to the back door.

A pent-up sigh escapes him when he makes out Tony's outline ripping off his suit and turning a wheelbarrow over it, clearly anxious to get to back to his son as he and Bruce burst inside.

"How is he? I flew as fast as I could," Tony cries, taken aback when he sees Michelle in the room, "…on horseback, which was only by some miracle that we made it here…in…time."

The girl's eyes narrow as she moves aside, letting the man take her place.

Tony collapses down next to Peter, looking over what just a bit of time has done to his son.

"Half-pint," he murmurs into the boy's ear. "I'm here."

Bruce pivots around Tony with his kit, looking for clues as to what on earth is happening.

"Let me look at him."

The doctor regards Michelle as he says it. She seems to understand, pausing a moment longer before exiting the room out of respect for the boy's privacy.

"I'm not so sure it's his lungs that are causing these symptoms," Steve interjects after he knows she's out of hearing range, "He's been bit by a spider of some kind."

"What?" Tony says in disbelief.

"Look at his chest. Left side," Steve adds, peeling back the shirt for them to see, "The spider's on the mantel there."

Bruce travels to the dead creature, taking a brass, folding magnifying glass from his pocket, and bringing the specimen into the light of the fire.

"Oh, kid. No wonder…" Tony prods around the wound with gentle fingers as Peter stirs.

"Mr. Stark…you came back…Are we related?" the boy's sluggish voice whispers with eyes shining.

Tony frowns, moving his hand to Peter's face.

"Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already. I've only been gone for like…a minute," he says, tilting his head and searching for more recognition, "And It's 'dad' now, remember? You’re mine."

New tears slip down into the boy's ears before Tony can catch them.

"Does Mr. Toomes know?"

"Oh, he knows alright," Tony says through hushed laughter, "I took care of him before I took care of you."

"He hits me."

"Yeah, well, that’s all over now. You’re not there anymore. You hearing me?" Tony continues with voice cracking.

"It's just the fever," Steve reassures.

Tony gives the tiniest nod, grabbing for one of Peter's hands.

The moment he makes contact, sticky fingers latch on, bonding to his own like glue and giving him the willies. He tugs his palm back on instinct, alarmed when he sees just how fused they are.

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! What is this?" Tony asks, grabbing Peter's wrist and making another attempt at pulling them apart, "Bruce, get back over here, please, he cries, "Now!"

Bruce places the spider's corpse down on the table. "Oh, boy."

Tony's gaze is piercing. "Oh, boy? What's oh, boy?!"

Bruce shakes his head, side to side, pressing his lips together and bringing a hand over his eyes, "You're not gonna like this."

"Bruce, I swear to you…you better spill the beans now, buddy, or I'm gonna have to-"

"The spider," Bruce shouts over the man, pausing to lower his voice again, "The spider's from Curie's laboratory."

Tony's eyebrows knit together, forgetting his fused fingers for a moment, "What? How do you-"

"She was showing me different specimens while I was visiting. Certain spiders were resilient and thriving…showing new traits under radioactivity. Those spiders…they don't exist anywhere else."

Steve watches Tony form conclusions, veins popping up around his temples and neck, "So, it traveled with you."

Bruce wrings his hands, "It explains the kid's reaction…the early mutation signs-"

"Mutation?" Tony repeats, eyebrows hiking up to the many worry lines adorning his forehead.

"There's a silver lining here," Bruce continues, changing to a more defensive position, "We know the kid's not dying."

"I'm sorry…Just for clarification…You're not actually telling me that my kid's turning into a spider-"

"No, no. That's not-well-obviously, we'll have to wait and see if-"

"Bruce, you're killing me. Please-"

"I'm trying to say that…Peter's body might be adapting due to the bite."

Tony holds his breath, turning back to his son and looking to Steve for a different explanation.

The soldier offers the first thing that comes to mind. "Tony, I know this looks bad, but this could change the kid for the bet-"

"He's perfect the way he is!" Tony shouts, nostrils flaring when it makes Peter jolt beside him.

His gaze wanders down the boy's frame, noting, for the first time, the muscles beginning to form beneath his torso, those thin biceps bulking and toning up right in front of them.

Peter’s eyes catch his, far more awareness swimming in them now. "What's happening to me?" he asks, beads of sweat dripping down his skin.

But Tony can't seem to find his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, it begins, my friends. Please comment and let me know how you liked the chapter. More father/son angst, whump and feels to come!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Please let me know your thoughts. I've missed this!! lol


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